A Matter of Trust
by otherhawk
Summary: Following the events of 'The Double Affair', Napoleon and Illya have a serious talk about trust in a world of doppelgangers


**A/N: Written for the What's My Line challenge on Section VII**

 **This episode always bothered me a little.**

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The door opens beneath his hand and he breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he had been afraid that Napoleon had locked him out of the hotel room. Worse, for once, he isn't completely sure he would have blamed him.

At first sight there's no sign of Napoleon in the room, and he feels his shoulder tense as he adjusts his grip on the wine bottle uncomfortably. Napoleon had said he was heading back to the hotel room, after he'd turned Pauline down. If he has left after that...well, Illya is inclined to think that his partner is avoiding him, and he is ashamed of the suspicion that invokes.

Movement catches his eye. The muslin curtains across the French doors out to the balcony are fluttering slightly in the breeze. Softly, he picks his way across the floor and steps outside. Napoleon is there, sitting on the ground, his back to the wall as he stares out across the water at the setting sun. He doesn't even glance up at Illya.

He sits anyway, on the other side of the door and keeps the silence, though he pours them each a glass of wine. Red, and he knows that Napoleon's preference is for champagne, but in spite of their latest success he doubts that either of them are in the mood for the fizz of celebration.

All through this affair, Napoleon has been quiet and serious, and even at the end, when Pauline had practically thrown herself at him, he'd just smiled and let her down gently. That had been the moment when Illya had frowned at him, _wondering,_ and he had seen the anger and hurt in Napoleon's eyes, like he had known what Illya was thinking. But that is the point, of course. He _had_ known. They are supposed to know each other that well, after all, and he knows a hundred details of Napoleon, the trivial and the important – he can predict Napoleon's choice of suits, he knows his favourite books and composers, he knows the way he straightens his cuffs to hide his anger, knows when and why he learned to conceal his self behind a smile, knows that he doesn't particularly care for the taste of vodka but he drinks it with Illya because he recognises that sharing a bottle of vodka is no simple thing.

He knows all that because he is an observant man and he knows his friend, and if anyone had asked him if he could be fooled by some doppleganger he would have laughed derisively. Shows what he knows.

The sun sets. He sips at the wine, pleasantly surprised at the taste. He took it from the Comte De Laureac's wine cellar – after all, the man will be locked away for a very long time. He will not be needing it.

"You know," Napoleon says in a low, rough voice, as the last glints of light ripple across the sea. "Just because I choose not to flirt with a woman for once in my life doesn't mean that I'm not myself."

He looks round quickly but Napoleon's face is turned resolutely away, his eyes fixed on the far horizon. "I know that," he says. "I am sorry," and the apology isn't for his doubt today, his apology is for all the doubt he missed when it truly mattered.

"Yeah." He thinks his apology is understood. He just isn't sure that it is accepted. "She had a tan line around her ring finger. I don't know the story, but you know I don't - "

" - I know," he says, and he does, and he had seen that too, and yet when Napoleon's disinterest had been so plain, the fear and suspicion had risen like some old ghost.

Napoleon's laugh is bitter. "You would think that THRUSH would have had the sense to tell their chosen double to flirt with everything in a skirt. Since apparently that would be all it took for him to be convincing."

"It was more than that," he admits, closing his eyes as the shame twists through him. "You... _he..._ was colder. More distant, I think. He did not talk to me, avoided eye contact." He smiles humourlessly. "I thought at first that you were simply still angry with me over the exploding flowers. And then when I saw you were acting the same way towards others, I thought that perhaps it was just the importance of the affair. And then..." He sighs. Suddenly he realises that he is tired and he has been for some time. "I knew something was wrong, but I admit, the idea that you had been replaced by a THRUSH double did not enter my head. My mistake."

"And one you're determined not to repeat," Napoleon says tonelessly.

"I..." He has no defence. He has been by turn too trusting and too suspicious, and now he finds he doesn't know how to make it better.

"Yeah." Napoleon still won't look at him. "I want to be alone. Please."

For a moment he struggles with that. He knows he should respect his friend's wishes, and yet instinct tells him that if he complies he will be walking away from more than just this conversation. "I heard about Serena," he says instead.

Napoleon doesn't seem surprised. "Yeah," he says again, and now he picks up the wine that Illya has poured for him and drains the glass. "I should have expected it."

He says nothing.

"I warned her about going back to THRUSH," Napoleon goes on after a moment. "She was convinced that they wouldn't blame her for not getting Project Earthsave, that she could just tell them that she'd done her part. I should have tried harder to persuade her – maybe I could have talked her into turning informant and coming to work for us."

If she had been like any of Napoleon's other THRUSH conquests, he doubts that would have been effective. There is little to suggest that she hadn't been loyal. "It was not your fault."

"She saved my life," Napoleon reminds him.

"She kidnapped you," he answers harshly. And if she did save Napoleon's life, it was only from the danger that she herself had created. As far as Illya is concerned, that does not count.

Napoleon turns to look at him, anger stirring in his eyes. "They shot her in the back of the head and left in some parking lot. I don't know if it was supposed to be a warning, or maybe a message for me, but you can't tell me you think she deserved that."

Perhaps not...but he would not mourn her either. "She made her own choices," he says, more gently than he had before "She was not your responsibility. But yes, when it mattered, she _did_ choose to save you, and her death _was_ a waste. You said her death might be a warning; perhaps it will be so. Perhaps others who work for THRUSH might see that their lives are always going to be expendable and one mistake is all it takes for them to be thrown away."

"Maybe," Napoleon says, and he doubts it just as much as Illya does. There is a commonality to those who choose to follow THRUSH's doctrines; a conviction that they are somehow exceptional, that they are smarter and stronger than those around them and that no matter what, they will emerge victorious. Doubtless, that is what led Serena to believe she could blithely walk back into the fold with a failed plan, a destroyed base, and a murdered agent behind her and all would be forgiven. That she has paid for that overconfidence with her life is no surprise.

At least Napoleon is talking to him now. "Do you wish me to leave?" he asks cautiously.

"No," Napoleon says tiredly. "No, you're right. We need to hash this out."

He has said no such thing, and certainly not so colourfully, but that is his opinion so he does not disagree. "That whole affair was a mess," he says instead, knowing that so much of the blame for that can be laid at his feet. "And now we know that THRUSH has the ability to create physical doppelgängers of anyone they like." The potential consequences were far reaching. Unthinkable.

"I suppose I can't blame you for being paranoid," Napoleon admits.

"No, you were correct," Illya tells him. "I should have known better." He sighs. "You know, I think we can assume that the attempt on my life just before this affair commenced was in order to prevent me from noticing that he was not you. I suppose it must have been a relief to them to realise that they need not have bothered."

"I don't blame you for not spotting the double," Napoleon says quickly.

"Yes you do," Illya says without heat. "And I do not blame you for it. It was my failing."

Napoleon pours them both another glass of wine. "Maybe," he admits. "But I know...I _saw_ him. I fought with him. I watched him die, and he looked exactly like me. You said he avoided you, and that you knew something was wrong. I can't say I would have managed better in your shoes. And anyway, it's _over._ Blaming you is a waste of time."

He hums a little, non-committal. He is always the expert when it comes to grudge-holding. "I am sorry. Still."

Nodding, Napoleon looks away. "You've been following the investigation," he says. It is not a question. "Have they found out who he was yet?"

Ah. He has indeed been following it. He has stood in the room and watched, impassive, as the pathologists dissect the body of a man who looked just like his best friend, and he has searched for answers of his own. "It's not clear," he says carefully. "We may never know. His fingerprints had been altered to match yours, and the reconstructive surgery made dental records useless." The truth, that Napoleon does not need to know, is that in order to recreate Napoleon's bone structure, the double's jaw had been broken and reset four times, and at least half of his teeth had been extracted and re-implanted. The pain must have been incredible. And now he does not even have a name to be buried under.

"A lot of effort to go to, to die looking like someone else," Napoleon says, nearly echoing his thought. He sighs. "I just wonder who he was and why he went through with it?"

"We are never going to know," he says. "In all probability, he was simply the agent they had who was closest in build and bone structure to you."

"They could have done a lot more damage with him than they did," Napoleon points out heavily. "He managed to stroll right into headquarters and no one suspected him. Just think of the secrets he could have stolen - "

" - the sabotage," Illya interrupts, agreeing. Napoleon has access to all areas. The double could have left headquarters a smoking crater, and it is doubtful that anyone would have managed to stop him before it was too late. "We are fortunate that this satrap was so concerned with Project Earthsave."

But they didn't know who had performed the plastic surgery. That was among the matters the investigation had been hoping to uncover. If the surgeon is still out there, THRUSH can create more duplicates as they like, with all the threat to their security that implies.

"We need to find that doctor," Napoleon says.

He snorts, short and bitter. "I have no doubt he will make his presence known again." Probably long before they are ready as well.

There is a pause. "We should have a code," Napoleon says, suddenly.

"We have dozens of codes," Illya points out, blinking. They did. Words dropped into conversations that meant they were being bugged, hand signals that meant cause a distraction, whistles that meant 'all clear' or 'run'.

"Something else," Napoleon clarifies, his eyes intent. "Something that only the two of us would know."

He catches on. "A test to identify doubles." He nods approvingly. "Very sensible."

Napoleon gives a wan smile. "Well, of course it is. It's my plan, after all."

"Napoleon." He waits until he has his friend's full attention. "Are we going to be okay?" It is not a simple question. If Napoleon cannot trust him – cannot trust that _Illya_ trusts _him –_ then their partnership is already crumbling.

"Yes." The answer is immediate and resolute, and he thinks perhaps it is as much hope as fact, but maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe they are simply going to get through this as they get through everything else. "I'll drink to it." He raises his glass and takes a sip. "This is good. Where did you get it?"

"I stumbled across it," he says evasively.

"Hmmm." Napoleon picks up the bottle and studies it for a moment. "From De Laureac's wine cellar, by any chance?"

"It is not as if he needs it anymore," he shrugs. "And after the inconvenience he put us to, I feel we are due some recompense."

"Right..." Napoleon is looking at him and there is a spark in his eye that has been missing these last weeks. A mixture of concern and amusement at his expense. "Right. You might want to avoid mentioning to anyone else that you picked this up."

It hadn't exactly been at the top of his agenda. "Why?" he asks suspiciously.

"A good rule of thumb?" Napoleon says, a hint of a grin playing around his mouth. "If the wine is more than twice your age, it probably isn't intended to be drunk by the likes of you and me." He turns the bottle around so that Illya can see the label.

Ah. He certainly hadn't noticed that when he had first picked it up. "The rewards of industry should go to the workers," he says, with dignity.

If anything, the grin widens. "I'm not sure we count as 'workers' in this context, tovarisch. And I'm absolutely certain this wine isn't the result of _your_ industry."

He has a feeling that Mr Waverly will not see the amusing side of this. If the wine is as expensive as Napoleon implies, it is something that should have been turned in to the proper authorities. "I trust this will be kept between the two of us?"

"Of course," Napoleon says, as though he should have known better than to ask. "Look on the bright side. At least now we have that test."

"And the wine is nice," he says dryly, drinking some.

"And the wine is nice," Napoleon agrees, toasting him lightly.

It's dark now, and there's a cooler breeze coming from the ocean, bringing in the smell of salt. He enjoys the wine, his head leaning back against the wall.

"It's a strange world," Napoleon says contemplatively. "When you can't trust that people are who they appear to be."

He nods. "One more horror that THRUSH has given us," he agrees. But he knows who Napoleon is, and he will trust to that.

He will not allow himself to make the same mistake twice.

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading, please review.**

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